


At the Stroke of Midnight

by xiujaemin



Category: EXO (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Dark, Dark Magic, Fairy Tale Retellings, M/M, twisted version of cinderella
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-13
Updated: 2014-08-13
Packaged: 2018-10-18 21:40:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,802
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10625667
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/xiujaemin/pseuds/xiujaemin
Summary: This story, just like all others, begins with a “once upon a time”. But the question is, will it end with a “and they lived happily ever after”?





	

**Author's Note:**

> a dark take to cinderella (inspired by some manga i read a year ago but whose title i really can't remember).  
> [this](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Tp-qmyON4U8) mv motivated me to write this thing and idk even

By some stroke of luck, Zitao is able to convince Luhan, the kingdom’s resident sorcerer to help him attend the grand ball hosted by none other than the king in order to find a suitable partner for his sons that’s going to start in an hour. Of course, like all others, he wishes to be married to one of the princes— preferably the younger one—and whisked off of his feet by such a noble, going on a journey to faraway lands and going off with him to the horizon, riding a gallant steed. But nothing comes without a price, and for such a wish, he has to pay.

“What would you give me in exchange, though?” Luhan asks, and he could see the glint of greed in the man’s eyes, interest clear in his features. The sorcerer laces his fingers together and props his elbows on the table, an insatiable thirst for sacrifices in his throat.

“My virginity.” He answers, poker-faced, and Luhan would’ve laughed except that the kid was serious, and he chokes on air, laugh caught up in his throat.

“No thanks,” he manages to say in-between coughs. “But I’ve already got that covered.” he side-eyes the guy Zitao assesses to be only a few inches shorter than him manning the counter who has his back to them and is busily sorting through bottles of liquids on the shelf. When Zitao had first come in, he initially thought of the man as the sorcerer’s assistant, looking even younger than himself and barely legal to work. But now that he thinks of it, they’re probably a lot more. And that he should stop sticking his nose into Luhan’s business because he might end up going to the ball as a toad instead of in an expensive garb.

“Then what would you want in exchange? Just not my kidneys please, I might need to sell one in the black market someday, when I’m short in cash.” Zitao tries to humor him, but he doesn’t look the least bit humored.  
Luhan taps a finger to his chin as he ponders for a bit, eyes scanning Zitao up and down, assessing what would be of use to him. His eyes stop to rest a little ways above Zitao’s chest, just below the collarbone. “Your necklace.”

Zitao glances down on the ornament dangled on his neck, the silver sword serving as its pendant pressed flush against the fabric of his shirt. He remembers dainty fingers clasping the lock firmly in its place as she smiles down on him, the edges of her eyes crinkling as the tips of her mouth quirk up higher. “But it’s important to me.”

Luhan laughs, the sound far from a madman’s cackle but enough to make the hairs on Zitao’s arms stand on end, anyway. His long-deceased grandmother’s words ring in his head, telling his seven year-old self that not all villains wear black cloaks, are old, hunch-backed witches that have graying hair and wart-infested faces and have fetishes for marrying themselves or their daughters off to some rich guy; that sometimes, ulterior motives are hidden behind sparkling doe-like eyes and generous smiles. “That’s the point. Why else would I ask for it?”

Zitao fiddles with the pendant, the metal cold against his fingertips and its sharp edges poking his skin. “Can’t you ask for anything else? Like, my liver, for instance?”

Luhan shakes his head, toffee brown hair getting messier with the motion. “I’m not interested in internal organs right now, but thank you for the offer. I might consider it sometime soon.” He stands up, legs of the metal chair he’s been sitting on scraping against the concrete floor and making a screeching sound. “Now if you’ll excuse me, I have more pressing matters to attend to.”

He proceeds to walk to the counter, pace teasingly slow, as if he was having a leisure walk at the park. Zitao swears that the sorcerer could hear the internal conflict brewing inside of him, going over the pros and cons of the deal, and that the other was just mocking him.

He chews on his bottom lip, dried cracks moisturized by his tongue running against them as he contemplates his decision, eyebrows creasing with worry over what the consequences would be. He thinks of his dream of getting married to the kingdom’s prince influenced by the blatant greed in his stepmother’s decisions and fueled by his great want to escape her fucked-up tyranny over the household; of the well-mannered gentleman only a year behind him age-wise with a prominent jawline, eyes that would be hidden in crescent moons whenever he beams, and a smile that could melt even the coldest of hearts. And he could have a chance at possessing all of that, only if he agrees to make the sacrifice.

Yet another side of him argues that what Luhan was asking for was the last thing his mother had given to him before she was stricken with illness and passed on to the next world, his father following soon after years of being married to a younger woman who was wicked beyond measure and had daughters that were more annoying than the sound of crows on repeat. It was a parting gift, a token which he relied on to remind him of happy thoughts whenever the three woman were giving him a particularly hard time, or whenever being stuck within the confines of the house that used to be filled with happy memories felt oppressive.

“Wait,” he says, tremors of guilt and regret already washing through his body even if he hasn’t said his decision yet. He rises from his seat, gripping the edge of the table for support. “Is there really no other way?”

Luhan turns, a kind smile on his face, yet a dangerous glint in his eyes. “Unless you could offer me something of the same value or greater, then no, I don’t think there is any other way.”

Zitao reaches for the back of his neck and touches the chain, unhooking the end from the clasp and removing the ornament from his neck, a silent goodbye at the tip of his tongue. He steps a few paces forward and stops in front of Luhan. He takes the sorcerer’s wrist and the latter obliges, opening his palm as Zitao leaves the necklace there.

“Great, we have a deal then.” The way Luhan’s smile reaches his eyes tells Zitao that it’s not entirely happiness from getting a done deal, but something else.

 

♛

 

Zitao stares in awe at the sight before him, the palace made even more grandiose by the majestic decorations set up all around. The sound of horses’ hooves hitting against the century-old bricks on the road comes to a halt as the carriage stops in front of the castle’s iron gates, and he couldn’t help the excitement bubbling up in his chest.

An attendant opens the door for him and helps him get down from the vehicle and he obliges, enjoying the moment since he’s not used to being attended to. He tries hard to ignore the coldness of the attendant’s bony fingers seeping through his own skin and the hollowness of the man’s cheeks, eyes blank and betraying no emotion.

He knows this isn’t how the fairy tales he remembers from his childhood, but having a sorcerer that practiced the dark arts take the place of a fairy god mother in his version of the story was better than nothing at all, right? Besides, he’d rather spend what’s left of the day living a momentary midsummer night’s dream than be stuck in the house that has long since not been a place he could call home, left to polish the floors and wash the dishes.

The ball is already in full swing when he passes through the opened wooden oak doors of the palace and he looks around in amazement, used to only staring at the closed gates of the palace from afar while he passed by on the way to the market and imagining what living there would have felt like. But now he’s there in the grand hall that he’s only used to daydream about, dukes and duchesses and lords and marquees and other nobles alike milling about dressed to the nines, gossiping about the latest scandals involving each family and talking about whose business is going to be a flop next, some dropping hints regarding partnerships and rivalries while the others pretended to know a lot by rambling on about opinionated views on the economy and politics. It seems that he isn’t that much late yet, given that only a few of the other guests are dancing.

Zitao feels out of place in the spider-woven silk suit designed to fit his body perfectly and shoes made from real leather enchanted to help him dance well and not trip on his own feet. Despite all the glamour, he still feels that he doesn’t belong there; an outsider to a flock of royalties and nobles alike.

The king was nowhere to be seen, but everyone has gotten used to his absence by now that no one even bothers to ask his sons how he was fairing with his illness and if he’s going to recover anytime soon to take the reins of ruling over from his eldest son and be the one to run the land firsthand once more.

Something—or rather someone—catches Zitao’s attention: a pair of young lads no taller than him, dressed in the finest clothes made of the best fabric merchants from all over the land could offer. Both of their tunics were adorned with gold and other jewelries, leaving anyone who looks at them bedazzled. But their faces were incomparable to anyone else that Zitao has seen, beauty seemingly coming from an enchanted world, far more precious than the gems and crystals decorating the chandelier in the middle of the hall’s ceiling.

A group of people are milling around them. _Making small, nonsensical talk,_ Zitao thinks, considering that he remembers the two being the bearers of the kingdom’s crown.

The taller one—who Zitao recognizes as Sehun— excuses himself and makes his way towards the entrance, and Zitao would have dumbly stood there in his place the whole night, struck by the contrast between his life and that of the other people there, if it weren’t for the fact that the prince is standing right in front of him, hand held out in an offer and a tentative smile on his face. “Would you like to dance?”

He would’ve fainted dramatically then and there, and he thinks that maybe it would have been better if he did, because then he wouldn’t have to struggle with the right thing to say. “But the music…” his voice comes out smaller than the usual, almost like a squeak.

“Ah, you don’t like it?” Sehun drops his hand and looks around for the orchestra, making a hand signal at the conductor. The old man nods and taps his stick on the stand in front of him, the music changing from a modernized classic to a slow tune. The prince turns his attention back to the man before him, extending his hand once more, and his smile reaching his eyes. “That could be easily remedied.”

Zitao lets himself be whisked away to the dance floor, a fairy tale unfolding right before him. He could hear envious whispers from other people as the two of them talk while swaying hand-in-hand to the beat of the music. He recognizes his stepsisters and stepmother amongst the crowd, but he doesn’t care if they’re all talking shit about him or revering him, because at that moment, everything is going the way he wanted.

He feels eyes all over him, but nothing beats the holes burning on his skin as he notices Jongin, the other prince, staring at him, face masking something inexplicable in his gaze.

“Huang Zitao…Have we met before?” Zitao’s attention is brought back to Sehun, and the younger prince’s smile is warm, much unlike the cold stare of his older brother. “Because I feel like…I’ve known you from somewhere. Like we’re… connected?”

And good lord, is the prince hitting on him? Or is it because Sehun really has seen him before, passing by in front of the gates to run for an errand?

Zitao hardly remembers good memories from his childhood, so he doubts whether Sehun had been one of his playmates back then, but there _was_ this one kid who had the same way of crinkling his eyes into half-moons whenever he smiles, teeth barely showing. Too bad he couldn’t remember the kid’s name, though. Besides, that was impossible anyway; the kid from that time was dressed in clothes stitched together from rags, much unlike what the prince he’s dancing with is wearing right now. It’s impossible for a beggar to turn into a prince, right?

So he chooses the safest route, answering back with half the intention of flirting back, the other half choosing to make the reply a vague question so that Sehun couldn’t know the truth of his real identity. “Maybe… You’ve seen me from your dreams?” And when Sehun laughs, it means as much as the world used to mean to him.

He knows there aren’t any time limits or quotas that Luhan had given him, but somehow when the huge grandfather clock by the corner of the room strikes twelve, a cold dread seeps through his veins, instincts screaming for him to get out that instant.

But he doesn’t. Why would he, when everything he’s ever wanted is right here, being presented on a silver platter right in front of him?

Sehun has begun to look anxious at the clock’s first toll, eyes flitting from Zitao and somewhere behind the throng of other people, and just as the resounding echo of midnight’s calling bounces in the hall for one final time, he grabs Zitao in a tight hug. “I’m sorry. I really am.”

“What are you talking about?” Zitao begins, startled with the sudden closeness. But he notices that the orchestra has suddenly stopped playing, the whole palace suddenly going quiet and the world coming to a standstill as time stopped for everybody else but them. He hears footsteps, and he pushes away from the hug and looks around, only to find Jongin, the only other one who’s still capable of moving, only a few paces from where they are. “What does this mean?” he says in a rush.

“I like you, I really do,” Sehun’s words come out quickly now, hands still on Zitao’s back. “Even from before. I know you remember, and I’m even sorrier because of that. It’s just that… Things couldn’t be possible anymore.”

Sehun lets go of him, and he almost feels relieved until cold fingers clamp around his shoulder, and he is forced to turn to stare at the now crimson-colored eyes of the prince he’s remembered looking back at him earlier with dark brown irises instead of red ones. “You’re mine now.”

 

♛

 

There they stand, rows upon rows of men lined up and trapped in a stasis, expressions stuck in a state of frozen bewilderment. Stiff and still, they remain motionless like dolls displayed in front of a store.  
A boy in his early twenties is added to the collection, a look of loss and betrayal evident on his face. The person who it was meant for stands beside him, face solemn.

But by some stroke of luck, the story doesn’t end here, strings of hope being pulled and held on to quickly.  
Sehun’s fingers twitch slightly, stiff body unfreezing inch by inch. He comes closer to Zitao and touches the latter’s face with a cold hand, thumb tracing the hollow of his cheek.

Zitao’s blinks once, twice, thrice for good measure, and piercing black eyes stare back at him, lips parting in surprise from the spell unwinding.

 

♛

 

“Really now? You’re giving them a happy ending? How highly unlikely of you.” Minseok squints at Luhan, sure that he has some trick hidden underneath his sleeve.

But the sorcerer only waves him off, eyes glued to the crystal ball on top of his table and chin propped on top of his palm in a contemplative gesture. “C’mon Minseok, don’t be so mean. I still have a heart, you know.”  
Minseok laughs at the man’s answer and grabs the nearest chair to sit beside him, observing the image on the ball. “So, I guess you’ve changed your mind now?”

Luhan presses his lips together in thought, eyes still trained in front of him as the scene unfolds. “Maybe,” he shrugs, and spares Minseok a glance. “Some endings are better off happy, anyway. And besides, I’m tired of all those tragedies.”  



End file.
